“What news, did ye say, Mr. John? Weel, if ye mean from Scotland, ye have the last yersel’ in the letters of your honorable mither. What I am hearing from some Scot that cam oot o’ the west country is that if the council does na maister the Covenanters, the dear carles will maister them, and then Scotland will be a gey ill place to live in. It will be a fine sicht when you and me, Claverhouse, has to sign the Solemn League and Covenant, and hear Sandy Peden, that they call a prophet, preachin’ three hours on the sins o’ prelacy and dancin’. My certes!” And at the thought thereof Grimond lost the power of speech.
“Never mind Scotland, Jock, just now; the auld country will take care of herself till we go home, and then we’ll give such assistance as in the power of a good sword. Who knows, man, but we’ll be riding through the muirs of Ayrshire after something bigger 58 than muir-fowl before many years are over? But the camp, man, what’s going on here this morning, and what are the folk talking about, for, as ye know, I’ve been on the broad of my back after yesterday’s work?”
“If ye mean by news, laird, what wasna expected, and that, I’m judging, is a correct definition o’ news, there’s naethin’ worth mentionin’. A dozen more Scots have come to get their livin’ or their death, as Providence wills, in a foreign army, instead of working their bit o’ land on a brae-side in bonnie Scotland. But that’s no news, for it has been goin’ on for centuries, and I’m expectin’ will last as long as thae foreign bodies need buirdly men and Scotland has a cold climate.
“They are saying, I may mention, that Chamilly is getting sick o’ these mortars, and didna particularly like the attack yesterday, and the story is going about that he will soon ask for terms, and that if he gets the honors of war the Prince may have the town. It will be another feather in his cap, and, to my thinkin’, he has got ower many for his deservin’––an underhand and evil-hearted loon.” And Grimond spoke with such vehemence and a keen dislike that Claverhouse suspected he had heard something more important than he had told.
“‘Is that all?’ ye ask, Claverhouse, and I reply no; but I wish to gudeness that it was. If news be what has happened, even though some of us expected it, then I have got some, although I would rather that my tongue was blistered than tell it. It cam into my mind that the Prince micht be appointin’ the new colonel to the Scots Brigade this mornin’, and so I just happened to give a cry on an Angus man who is gettin’ his bit livin’ as a servant to one of the aides-de-camp. He is called a Dutchman, but has honest Scots blood in his veins. We havered about this and about that, and then I threipit (insisted) that he would never hear onything that was goin’ on, and, for example, that he wouldna know who was the new colonel. ‘Div I no?’ said Patrick Harris. ‘Maybe I do, but maybe I wouldna be anxious to tell ye, Jock Grimond, for ye michtna be pleased.’ ‘Pleased or no pleased,’ I said, ‘let me hear his name.’ ‘Well,’ he answered, ‘if ye maun have it, it’s no your maister that folk thought would get it.’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘Patrick, I jalouse who it is; it’s MacKay of Scourie.’ ‘It is,’ said Patrick. ‘I heard it when I was standin’ close to the door, and I canna say that I’m pleased.’ Naither was I, ye may depend upon it, Claverhouse, but I wouldna give onybody 60 the satisfaction of knowing what I thocht. So I just contented mysel’ wi’ sayin’, ‘Damn them baith, the are for an ungrateful scoundrel, and the other for a plottin’, schemin’ hypocritical Presbyterian. I cam to tell ye, but no word would have passed my lips if ye hadna chanced to ask me.”
“Jock, you’ve been a faithful man to the house of Graham for many years,” said Claverhouse, after a silence of some minutes, during which Grimond busied himself polishing his master’s arms, “and I will say to you what I am not going to tell the camp, that you might have brought better news. Whether I was right or wrong, man, I had set my heart upon succeeding Ballantine, and I was imagining that maybe this very afternoon I could write home to my mother and tell her that her son was a lieutenant-colonel in the good Scots Brigade. But it’s all in the chances of war, and we must just take things as they come. Do ye know, Jock, I often think I was born like the Marquis, under an unlucky star, and that all my life things will go ill with me, and with my cause. I dinna think that I’ll ever see old age, and I doubt whether I’ll leave an heir to succeed me. I dreamed one nicht that the wraith of our house stood beside my bed and said, ‘Ye’ll be cursed in love and cursed 61 in war, and die a bloody death at the hand of traitors whom ye trusted.’”
“For God’s sake, Maister John, dinna speak like that.” And Grimond’s voice, hard man though he was, was nigh the breaking. “It’s no chancy, what ye say micht come to pass if ye believe it. Whatever the evil spirit said in the veesions o’ the nicht––oh! my laddie, for laddie ye have been to me since I learned ye to ride your pony and fire your first shot, ye mauna give heed or meddle wi’ Providence. Ye have been awfu’ favored wi’ the bonniest face ever I saw on a man, so that there’s no a lass looks on ye but she loves ye, and the hardiest body ever I kenned. Ye have the best blood of Scotland in your veins, and I never saw ye fearful o’ onything; ye have covered yersel’ wi’ glory in this war, and I prophesy there will be a great place waiting you in the North country. There’s no a noble lady in Scotland that wouldna be willing to marry you, and I’m expectin’ afore I die to see you famous as the great Marquis himsel’, wi’ sons and daughters standin’ round ye. I ken aboot the wraith o’ the house o’ Graham, a maleecious and lying jade. If she ever comes to ye again by nicht or day, bid her begone to the evil place in the name o’ the Lord wha redeemed us.”
“You’re a trusty friend, Grimond, for both my mother and myself count you more friend than servant, and you’ve spoken good words; but I take it this day’s happenings are an omen of what is coming. Maybe I am ower young to take black views o’ hidden days, but ye’ll mind afterwards, Jock Grimond, when ye wrap me in a bloody coat for burial, for there will be no shroud for me, that I said the shadow began to fall at the siege of Grave. But there’s no use complaining, man; our cup is mixed, and we must drink it, bitter or sweet. Aye, the Grahams are a doomed house, and we maun dree oor weird (suffer our destiny).”